


Heart's Desire

by dornfelder



Series: Significance [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sadness, and a dick, geralt is clueless, unresolved everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22636843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: There was not a single person in the world who ever got everything they wanted. You made do with what you could get.Somethingwas better than nothing. Paying whores was better than never getting to fuck anyone, never getting to touch warm skin or feel another person's heartbeat under your palm. Stale bread was better than going hungry, and if all the innkeeper had was ale, you didn't insist on wine.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Significance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628431
Comments: 70
Kudos: 214





	1. I

The Cat With Two Tails was a small tavern in a small, peaceful village close to the border. Without a contract, there was no reason for Geralt to be there – none, except for the music coming from the open window. It was early spring, and it had taken him three miserable, rain-soaked and muddy weeks to find Jaskier.

Now that he had, he was tempted to reconsider. _The Fishmonger's Daughter_ was one of Jaskier's raunchier songs, and if he played it early in the evening, that usually meant he'd finish with things like _Three_ _B_ _ards and_ _No L_ _ady,_ or worse, _T_ _he Butcher_ _'s Favorite Cow_ _,_ which more often than not led to a proper tavern brawl.

Geralt paid the groom to take Roach off his hands, then brushed some of the mud from his coat before entering the tavern. It was loud in there and crowded. The townspeople, avidly listening to Jaskier's performance, didn't immediately notice him as he stepped toward the bar and asked the innkeeper for a room for the night. He cut the usual bargaining short, simply paying what the man demanded. Ale in hand, he then quietly slipped away to find an empty corner in the shadowed back of the room.

Jaskier kept on playing and singing, and Geralt kept watching him. He was looking healthy, his hair a little longer than it had been the last time. Or rather, the last time Geralt had paid attention to the way he looked. Some of his songs were unfamiliar to Geralt, but they sounded well-rehearsed. A mediocre performance, yet still entertaining, if the reaction of the audience was anything to go by; the villagers were generous with their coins. The innkeeper kept Jaskier well-supplied with ale throughout.

It took Jaskier surprisingly long to spot Geralt. He was in the middle of his rendition of _Where the Peaches Grow_ , moving through the room and choosing people at random to supply the ending to the different verses, which always led to rambunctious bouts of laughter. Jaskier finished the chorus line in the center of the room, smiling and bowing. As he lifted his head, he briefly scanned the crowd, likely trying to determine whether the assembled townspeople were starting to tire of his performance. Then he saw Geralt. And froze.

* * * * *

Jaskier kept playing for another hour, well-known tunes that were unlikely to get him into any sort of trouble. Geralt briefly ventured outside to check on Roach and make sure there was no trouble lurking at the edge of the woods before returning to the tavern. He didn't intend to give Jaskier an opportunity to escape, so he kept an eye on him for the rest of the evening. After Jaskier had played his last song, collected his coins and started to cover his lute with its protective cloth, Geralt used the opportunity to sneak up on him. "Jaskier."

Jaskier's spine stiffened. He turned his head, a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.

"Geralt. If I had known you'd deign to graze this fine establishment with your presence, I'd have played some of my older songs. 'Toss a Coin' might have earned you a free drink or two." He finished wrapping his lute, his back to Geralt. "What brings you to this lovely, if muddy, part of the world?"

"I've been looking for you."

"Oh?" Jaskier cast a quick glance at him. "Why?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"Well, that would be a first."

Geralt didn't wince, but is was a near thing. Somehow, Jaskier had succeeded to put him on the defensive. That wasn't supposed to happen; after all, Geralt had a valid reason to be angry at him.

He tried again. "I'll buy you an ale."

"I can afford my own. Say what you came here to say. Then leave me alone."

If that was what Jaskier wanted … "You lied to me. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?"

When Jaskier looked at him this time, his expression was guarded. "No. But what does it matter?"

"It matters," Geralt said through clenched teeth. " _To me_."

"Why?"

He wanted to curse. "Because I went to Yennefer. To thank her," he added pointedly when Jaskier's eyes widened. "You should have told me."

Jaskier held his gaze for a moment, then sighed. "All right. Let's talk."

Jaskier led the way to a table in the corner, close to the second, smaller fireplace, put his lute case on the table and sat down on the bench. Moments later, the innkeeper appeared to put another mug of ale in front of him. Jaskier nodded a silent thanks and took a deep swallow. He gestured at Geralt to take a seat at the other side of the table. "So. You talked to Yennefer, who told you … what, precisely?"

Geralt snorted. He sat down on the place Jaskier had indicated, his back to the wall. The tavern was almost empty now. The innkeeper was sweeping the floor, keeping an eye on the few remaining guests. "That she hadn't even heard of the curse by the time it was lifted."

* * * * *

"It wasn't me, I'm afraid." There was a hint of _something_ in her eyes. Apology? Regret?

"But –"

"It wasn't me, Geralt. I only heard of it weeks later. I'm sorry." He stared at her, and she looked away for a second, drumming her fingers on the table. "The thing is, I don't know if it would have worked. I just don't know."

"You don't know."

"It's not because –" She lowered her eyes. "Not because I wouldn't want to save you. But it would have meant too much, if I had been able to break the curse. Or if I hadn't."

He understood what Yen couldn't bring herself to say. She didn't _want_ to love him, didn't want to face the truth of it and the consequences.

If he'd woken from her kiss, with her being there, he would have used it to try and make her stay. He'd been prepared to make that argument, coming here, and she knew it. _Your kiss broke the curse. Your love is true, just like mine._

He couldn't say that now because it hadn't been her kiss that had woken him.

"If you had known, would you have come?" he said, grasping at straws.

"Yes." Her voice was softer now. "Yes, of course. For what it's worth."

He tried to let it be enough. Tried to accept it and move on.

Which meant focusing on the most important part of her revelation. If Yen hadn't kissed him, who _had_? And why hadn't she stayed and talked to him?

It was almost as if Yennefer read his mind. Her tone was lighter as she said, "Does that mean you don't actually know who kissed you?"

He scowled, recalling that he hadn't asked, just assumed. There had been no one but him and Jaskier on that hill, and he'd immediately drawn the conclusion that Yennefer hadn't wanted stay and face him. Had there been another woman close by whose presence he hadn't sensed? Until now, Geralt would have been willing to swear that Jaskier had been the only one around, standing in front of him and looking faintly nervous. Fidgeting with something in his hand. "If it wasn't you …"

"Which we've established by now."

"Then I don't know."

"There must have been _someone_. Curses like that don't just dissipate. What exactly do you remember?"

"I'd have to ask Jaskier," he murmured, distracted.

"Jaskier?" There was a faint note of surprise in her voice, one that made Geralt lift his head.

"He was there when I woke up." Yen stared at him. Stared at him some more until Geralt narrowed his eyes. "What?"

She kept staring. He got the distinct impression that he was missing something glaringly obvious.

"Geralt," she said, her voice shaking. He wasn't sure whether she was fighting laughter or tears. "You absolute and utter _moron._ "

* * * * *

Jaskier didn't say anything, instead, he took another sip of his ale, hiding his face. "That must have been …" He coughed. "Awkward?"

 _To say the least._ Geralt scowled.

"So, how did you find out? Were you asking around, trying to find your mysterious lady love?"

Geralt stared at him. To anyone else, the expression on Jaskier's face would have been one of mild curiosity. And in another situation, Jaskier's acting skills might have deceived even him. "I'm not an idiot, Jaskier."

Jaskier raised his eyebrows with a hint of cockiness, a bit of mock-surprise. "That, my friend, is debatable."

 _I am not your friend._ The instinctive denial died on his lips. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Jaskier's smile faded. "Why did I need to?"

That was a good question, and Geralt didn't like it. "Because I had no fucking idea. And you knew that. Why would you let me believe –"

"Geralt." The word, quiet and subdued, immediately stopped him. "You believed what you wanted to believe. And I …" Jaskier didn't finish his sentence.

"You should have told me."

"Maybe," Jaskier allowed. But apparently there was still no explanation forthcoming.

"This leads us nowhere", Geralt said, unable to hide his annoyance.

Jaskier sighed. "What do you want me to say?"

And that was another really good question. "You owe me an explanation."

Jaskier looked away. "I heard of the curse. At first, I didn't want to go, then I reconsidered. Letting the fairy queen deprive the world of your considerable monster-slaying talents when it was in my power to do something against it seemed like a dereliction of moral duty on my part. So I went and kissed you. You woke up, you thought it had been Yennefer, and I didn't correct your misconception. Call it cowardice. Call it malice. Does it matter? The curse was broken, that's the important part, wouldn't you agree?"

"It was true love's kiss." Geralt didn't know why he said it. He still wasn't sure he believed it.

Jaskier fell silent. He looked at Geralt, a little startled, as if he hadn't expected Geralt to say that. "Well, yes," he said after a moment in a lighthearted tone that didn't match the look in his eyes. "But that doesn't really concern you, does it?"

 _Like fuck it doesn't_. "You saved my life."

"No. I just lifted the curse. If I hadn't done it, someone else would have, eventually. No, really," he added as Geralt furrowed his brow.

"I don't think so."

Jaskier stared down into his ale. "Is there point to this conversation? I've had a long day, and –"

"I owe you an apology."

"Oh?"

"That day on the mountain. You didn't deserve what I said to you. I'm sorry."

Jaskier met his gaze as if trying to determine whether Geralt actually meant it. "All right," he said after a moment.

"All right? Is that all you have to say?"

Jaskier shrugged. "I forgive you."

Geralt couldn't recall a time he'd been at a loss for words in Jaskier's presence. It bothered him. Why did it matter what Jaskier thought of him?

_Since I found out he's in love with me. That he came to save me when no one else would. Even though the last things I'd said to him had been cruel and unfair._

"Maybe you shouldn't", Geralt muttered.

"That's a strange thing to say, really. Do you want me to stay angry at you?"

_No. Yes. Maybe._

Grinding his teeth, Geralt cursed the fact that Jaskier seemed to have an answer to everything. The worst thing was that he wasn't even unreasonable. The entire situation was … aggravating. Geralt no longer knew why he'd thought it a good idea to come here.

If Jaskier was in love with him, why was he so bloody difficult? Why was he treating Geralt like he wanted nothing to do with him?

Leaning forward on his chair, Geralt let out a deep, resigned breath. "I owe you an apology. And I owe you a thank you. So I'm going to say it, whether you want to hear it or not."

Jaskier blinked. He didn't say anything.

"I am in your debt," Geralt continued, more softly. "And I want you to know that if there is anything you need from me – anything you want – I'm willing to give it to you, by whatever means, as long as you don't require me to kill for you." He made sure that he had Jaskier's full attention. " _Any_ _thing_ ," he added quietly, for emphasis.

He saw the moment Jaskier understood.

Jaskier's eyes widened. He opened his mouth and closed it again, then shook his head in disbelief. "Are you … are you honestly suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

Geralt didn't say anything, but he maintained eye contact until Jaskier turned his head to the side with a bitter, angry laugh. "Do you have _any_ idea how insulting that is?"

"It's not meant an insult. It's –"

"You're saying you're going to fuck me out of _gratitude_. That's – I don't even have the words to describe it." Jaskier was gripping the edge of the table, knuckles going white. "Do you really think _tha_ _t's_ what I want from you?"

"You're in love with me," Geralt said. He didn't understand why Jaskier was trying to deny it. "Or you wouldn't have been able to lift the curse."

"That doesn't mean I'm desperate for you to fuck me out of _obligation_!"

"So you can get it out of your system", he said through clenched teeth.

"So that I can – are you fucking kidding me?"

"You think you love me because I didn't give you the time of the day. Because I'm not swooning at your feet. You see it as a challenge. Once you realize …"

"Once I realize _what_?"

"You fall in love every other week, Jaskier. Doesn't mean that you actually love me."

Jaskier's laughter had a cruel ring to it. "I guess you really believe that. But the thing is, I don't. Fall in love, that is."

Geralt opened his mind to reply, but Jaskier war faster. "You know the saying, 'adding insult to injury'? I'm not sure I ever really understood what that meant, until now. How can you be so …" He shook his head, lips turning thin. "I don't think I can listen to this. I didn't ask you to come here and _pay your debt_ , or whatever it is you believe you're doing. You know what? If you wanted to thank me, you could just have said it. 'Thank you, Jaskier, I really appreciate you breaking that curse.' Or if you wanted to do something to apologize, you could offer me something of true value. Your friendship. Some bloody _respect_. But no, instead you're trying to tell me, _me,_ of all people, that I'm misinterpreting my own feelings. That the kiss was … what? A fluke? A case of mistaking lust for love? That simply isn't true. I know it because I was there. Because I bled for you, because the queen tested me and her roses let me through."

Geralt found himself unable to say something.

Jaskier glared at him, his face pale with bright spots on his cheeks, eyes blazing. "I've never, ever felt for anyone the way I feel for you. So do me the fucking courtesy to stop pretending to know better than me what goes on in my mind."

He shoved the mug aside, sloshing ale on the table, and got to his feet. "One last thing. If all you're _oh-so-graciously_ offering me is the use of your body, then I'm sorry, but you're not offering anything that I couldn't find for a silver in a dirty back alley. You know, I'm not that desperate for a fuck."

Hands shaking, Jaskier gathered his things, slung the lute around his shoulder and walked away without a backward glance, leaving Geralt behind to try and understand what had just happened and what on earth he was going to do now.


	2. II

Jaskier couldn't recall a time in his life when he'd been so blindingly, devastatingly furious.

When he'd imagined meeting Geralt again, he hadn't thought it would happen like this. Mostly, he'd tried to avoid the thought entirely. Whatever might happen once Geralt found out the truth wouldn't be pretty, and Jaskier knew better than to believe that there wouldn't be consequences.

He'd been a coward, that day on the hill, and then he'd been even more of a coward by taking his lute and his backpack and running away while Geralt was still busy retrieving his horse and his swords.

On the way back to the village, Geralt hadn’t talked to him, but apparently he expected Jaskier to stick around, impatiently waiting for him whenever Jaskier – exhausted and stumbling – fell back, barking at him to hurry. Jaskier went along with it without complaint, dreading the minute Geralt would start asking questions. But that didn't happen, and Jaskier used the first opportunity he got to walk away.

He hadn’t expected Geralt to follow him, and Geralt didn't.

Half a year later, and Jaskier had almost succeeded in telling himself that it would all be forgotten the next time they saw each other, if that ever happened. Geralt had never before sought him out, and if Jaskier managed to do the same, the chance that their paths would ever cross again were slim.

But now Geralt was here, in this tavern. Against all odds, he'd followed Jaskier and was demanding explanations. Offering apologies. Offering …

Jaskier shook his head for the tenth time in a row. He was pacing across the floor. The tiny room wasn't suited to this kind of restless striding, but if he left, chances were he'd encounter Geralt, and at the moment, Jaskier didn't trust himself not to do something rash and violent and utterly stupid.

He'd been looking forward to getting a good night's rest. The room was small but clean, with a bed with actual linens and not a rodent in sight. Jaskier had earned enough to spend a day or two, order a bath in the morning and mend his clothes before moving on.

But now … now he wanted to be gone, wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else, as long as _anywhere_ was half a world apart from fucking Geralt of Rivia.

Seeing him had been … all kinds of confusing. Whenever Jaskier met Geralt again after a time of absence, it felt like finding a missing piece of himself. His mind had taken stock of the changes: Geralt had cut his hair at some point, wore a short-trimmed beard, new boots, and a thick winter cloak lined with fur. He'd lost a bit of weight – the winter was harsh and people didn't have a lot of food to spare. All in all, he appeared healthy and in fairly good shape.

There was no reason to feel relief at the sight. No reason why it should matter to Jaskier that Geralt wasn't lying bleeding in a ditch somewhere. But who was he kidding? It had always mattered to him, and that wasn't likely to change anytime soon.

Even though the urge to strangle Geralt was nearly overwhelming at the moment.

Jaskier took a deep breath, stopped pacing and sank down on the bed. The worst thing was that Geralt actually believed he had been offering something that Jaskier wanted, something he was presumbably willing to do for Jaskier, but that in truth was all about him, a way to rid himself of an unwelcome debt. And if Jaskier let him …

_I could have said yes. I could have him, for one night. He'd do everything I wanted._

He hated himself for entertaining the idea, even in his mind.

 _He'd suffer through it, thinking_ _it_ _a fair price for his freedom. What's one night of mild discomfort to a witcher? Like a prize stud, he'd do his best to deliver a_ _memorable_ _performance. Make sure I walk away satisfied, like_ _the_ _women he leaves with a warm bed and a cold heart. Of course, that's what he thinks this is, me wanting to fuck him, a notch in my bed post if I had one._

_How can he do this to me? Doesn't he know …_

No, of course he didn't.

Jaskier rand a hand through his hair. It was easier for Geralt to believe that his body was all Jaskier wanted, easier than realizing that Jaskier loved him the way Geralt loved Yennefer: desperately, against all odds, beyond reason, far more than was good for him.

Why? Why couldn't Geralt let that be true? Because Jaskier was a man? Or because it made it easier for him to dismiss him as inherently meaningless?

His pack lay on the bed, right next to him. Jaskier opened it and slid a hand inside, rummaging through his accumulated belongings. He didn't take the gem out all that often, though he knew exactly where to find it, in a small bag wrapped into his second-best shirt. It only took a couple of seconds before he held it in his palm.

For all intents and purposes, the gem really looked like a rose. The petals were thin and delicate, the blossom breathtakingly beautiful, of a red so striking that it felt like something otherwordly had manifested in his hand. The one time he'd been waylaid by bandits on a way to the nearest town, they'd searched his bag yet hadn't found the gem, or rather, they had: they'd pulled it out and tossed it aside as if it were a lump of coal. Jaskier had lost a bag of silver that day and kept his lute only because they'd had no one to sell it to. It seemed likely that some sort of glamour hid the gem's true nature before others.

The knowledge was bittersweet: No one else would ever know.

The knock on the door made him flinch. He shoved the rose back into his pack. "What do you want?", he said, loud enough that Geralt – and who else could it be? – would hear him.

"Open the door."

Two ways this could go. Jaskier could obey and have another conversation with Geralt that he didn't want to have. Or he could say no and take the risk that Geralt would bash in the door.

Of course, there was also the possibility that Geralt might simply leave. Which would be best for everyone involved, really.

Jaskier made sure the gem was hidden before he went to open the door, hating himself, just a little, for giving in.

He stepped aside to let Geralt in, closed the door and waited, arms crossed at his chest, while Geralt cast a quick glance around and turned to look at him. They stood a couple of feet apart, staring at each other, and Jaskier found it almost impossible to keep silent.

The urge to do something really fucking stupid just for distraction was almost impossible to ignore.

"I'm sorry," Geralt said, voice low. "I didn't mean to –" He broke off, wincing. "To _upset_ you." It was obvious how much the admission cost him. "But I don't understand. I thought you –"

"Geralt." Jaskier kept his voice just as low, barely above a whisper. "I do. But …" How could he explain this to Geralt without resorting to the worst kind of trivialities? "If it's a choice between getting what I want, and getting a _taste_ of what I want, I don't think I can settle for that."


	3. III

Jaskier was shaking.

He was doing a good job trying to hide it, just not good enough. Geralt could have told him that, if he'd wanted to be petty. But he meant what he'd said, he didn't want to aggravate Jaskier any further. Their earlier conversation was still fresh in his mind.

He didn't want Jaskier to be miserable.

_He wasn't miserable before I showed up. If I leave him, he'll be just fine._

When Geralt hat let himself contemplate how the evening might turn out if Jaskier took him up on his offer … Well, it ended with Jaskier lying in the sheets, passed out in bliss, Geralt's debt paid in full. He didn't think Jaskier was particularly selfish or cruel in bed, so he'd assumed the experience would be a little uncomfortable at worst, maybe even moderately pleasant, depending on Jaskier's preferences.He hadn't given the details a lot of thought, but he knew he could make his body do almost everything he required of it. Having and maintaining an erection had rarely been a problem; it wouldn't be, once he had a willing body under him, and if Jaskier insisted on fucking him, Geralt would simply endure it.

Only that fucking him apparently wasn't what Jaskier wanted.

If someone had asked him before, Geralt would have scoffed at the idea that Jaskier loved him. Women who fancied themselves in love with him usually tried to seduce him. Jaskier hadn't tried anything of the sort. Unless … unless Geralt had been oblivious in this too.

But no. They'd shared a room countless times, a bathtub more than once, and Geralt hadn't picked up on any signs of interest.

 _Because I haven't been looking_ _._ Jaskier was a man. And Geralt had never seen him act in a fashion that indicated a sexual interest in other men, so he'd had no reason to suspect.

Though admittedly, it wasn't something people went around announcing in public.

Geralt hadn't wasted a lot thoughts on Jaskier's wants and needs before, but they seemed simple enough: adventure, but only as long as it made for a good tale and didn't cause too many inconveniences; women, if they happened to be pretty and willing, which they often were; fame, if it came with recognition – a place at the high table, an appreciative audience. Nothing more complicated than that.

There was not a single person in the world who ever got everything they wanted. You made do with what you could get. _Something_ was better than nothing. Paying whores was better than never getting to fuck anyone, never getting to touch warm skin or feel another person's heartbeat under your palm. Stale bread was better than going hungry, and if all the innkeeper had was ale, you didn't insist on wine.

Jaskier knew that, certainly, knew that it made no sense to refuse something you were offered just because you you'd hoped for more. Was he trying to pretend he was any different?

_If it's a choice between getting what I want, and getting a **taste** of what I want, I don't think I can settle for that._

What did that even mean? What did Jaskier want from him – love poems and flowers and whispered confessions?

"Can you stop looking at me?" Jaskier said with a smile, there and gone like a flash of lightning. "You're making me nervous."

Geralt snorted. He took a step toward Jaskier, not knowing why. Maybe as a way to call Jaskier's bluff and get him to admit what he really wanted. To make him stop pretending his feelings were pure, or whatever it was that was stuck in his head.

When Jaskier took an immediate step back, Geralt followed, crowding him against the door, maintaining a bit of distance, though not a lot, and put his hands on Jaskier's shoulders.

Jaskier's eyes locked with Geralt's, and he drew a shocked breath, his chest expanding under Geralt's hands. Geralt could feel him shaking. His eyes went wide, pupils dilating.

Fuck.

Jaskier wanted him. He really wanted him.

Geralt moved without thinking. His lips were on Jaskier's before he could stop himself, and when Jaskier froze and made a soft noise of surprise, Geralt deepened the kiss on instinct, tasting him. When Jaskier's lips parted for him, he licked into his mouth, a warm, addictive slide of tongues that went straight to his cock. He took, and took, and took.

Until Jaskier sharply twisted his head, put his hands on Geralt's shoulder and _shoved_.

Geralt let go and took a step back.

Jaskier stared at him, breathing hard. "What …" He licked his lips. "What was that?"

"A kiss, Jaskier. It's called a kiss."

"Fuck." Jaskier sounded almost dazed. "What are you doing?"

There was always a difference between knowing something and _knowing_ it, feeling the truth of it in your sinews and bones. It all made a horrifying sort of sense now. How easy it was, how Geralt had managed to shatter Jaskier's resistance with just one kiss. If he pushed just a little harder, Jaskier would give in, would give himself over and come apart under his hands, helpless. It ignited something low in his guts, something he couldn't name, something dangerous and greedy and spitefully triumphant.

Jaskier wanted him. And at this moment, unexpectedly, Geralt wanted him too.

He should have left the room earlier, at a point where he'd still known what he was doing and the transgression hadn't yet occurred.

Now that it had, it was too late.

"Should I stop?" he heard himself say.


	4. IV

Geralt … Geralt had kissed him. He'd kissed him, and Jaskier couldn't believe this was happening.

 _Why_ was this happening?

He couldn't think. Couldn't stop looking at Geralt and stop trembling.

It was too much, how was he meant to bear this? Make sense of it?

"A kiss, Jaskier. It's called a kiss."

Geralt's voice was low, a little amused, as if Geralt hadn't been affected in the least by something that had robbed Jaskier of all his defenses. He could still taste Geralt on his lips, could feel where Geralt's hands had rested on his shoulders.

"Fuck." He barely knew what he was saying. "What are you doing?"

He'd thought that Geralt understood. Understood this wasn't necessary, that Jaskier didn't want …

But Jaskier did want _._

"Should I stop?"

There were a thousand reasons to say no. All he'd said to Geralt earlier was still true, and none of that mattered now that Geralt had touched him, closing a distance that was like a chasm in Jaskier's mind, with Geralt firmly on one side and him on the other. Jaskier couldn't have taken the leap, dreading the inevitable fall. Now Geralt had bridged the gap like it was the easiest thing in the world, and Jaskier knew he would fall anyway, and it would shatter him, it would absolutely shatter him to have this for one night and watch Geralt walk away in the morning.

He couldn't say no to it any more than he could stop breathing.

And Geralt knew it.

Geralt wasn't even breathing hard, he just stood there, eyes gleaming, watching Jaskier like he'd somehow turned into prey. As if he already knew how to counter every move Jaskier could possibly make. Fully in control of the situation while Jaskier was a mess of conflicting emotions, fear and disbelief and desperate want roiling in his gut.

They weren't on equal footing, far from it, but maybe … maybe Jaskier wasn't quite as powerless as he felt. There was no way to guard his heart against this, so maybe it was better not to try. Geralt already knew how he felt anyway. Jaskier didn't have to hide, and that opened different possibilities.

He wasn't a swooning maiden who needed to be coaxed, not some spoiled princess who required servicing. If Geralt thought that fucking him was some kind of task to perform, he was underestimating Jaskier. And if he thought that he was going to end up on top, he was in for a surprise.

_Should I stop?_

Jaskier breathed in and out, trying to hold on to that sense of determination. He forced himself to smile at Geralt, whose eyes immediately narrowed. "You know, my friend, _stopping_ strongly implies that there is some sort of ongoing event to interrupt. I don't think that is the case here, do you?" With mostly steady hands, he started unbuttoning his doublet. "But if you want to _start_ something, how about you take off your clothes?"

It was worth the effort just to see the surprise in Geralt's face. The grim satisfaction filling Jaskier at the sight was not the solution to all his problems, but it was a start.

Jaskier focused on undressing himself, carefully not looking at Geralt – trying to look unconcerned. He wasn't fooling anyone, certainly not himself, but that didn't mean he couldn't try. Early in life he'd learned that there was no use in doing things halfway: Pretend to be confident for long enough, and some day it will stop being an act.

With his back to Geralt, he shrugged off the shirt he wore underneath his doublet, baring himself to Geralt's gaze, if Geralt deigned to look. Jaskier didn't know. He bent to take off his buckled shoes and stockings, then untied the laces of his trousers, all without turning around. There was a thunk, familiar from the countless times he'd heard Geralt put his swords on a table, metal clinking as Geralt loosened the straps of his armor.

_This is happening. This is really happening._

He couldn't afford to think about it. Not now.

Jaskier stepped out of his trousers. He didn't usually feel self-conscious in the presence of his lovers, but this was different. He didn't know what to expect from Geralt, what kind of reaction Geralt would show, faced with the reality of physical intimacy between men.

He took a deep breath and turned around.

In the middle of taking off his armor, Geralt stopped. Their eyes met.

Jaskier walked across the room, naked. Just a couple of small steps, but each of them felt like he was covering vast stretches of ground.

Geralt traced his movements, took in his body, and Jaskier wished he knew what Geralt saw, whether it was some sort of clinical appraisal or something more, appreciation, excitement, or even the faintest hint of lust.

Geralt stood still, nostrils flaring, as Jaskier cupped his cheek with one hand, then traced the lines of his neck and his exposed shoulder.

"Keep going," Jaskier said.

Geralt's jaw tightened, but he obeyed.

When the breast plate hat come off, Jaskier helped Geralt take off his padded tunic. Geralt didn't object even though he clearly wanted to, suffering Jaskier's touch with a faint scowl.

"There we go," Jaskier said mildly, as if this was nothing but a meaningless conversation, an evening of many where he'd helped Geralt with his gear or acted the valet. He stepped back and let himself look, the way he hadn't before.

"Jaskier." Geralt glared at him. "Stop playing games." He opened his belt.

Jaskier wasn't going to fall to his knees. Even though he wanted to. Instead he stepped forward. "Let me."

Geralt's hands stilled under his. Jaskier carefully pushed them aside and opened Geralt's belt, the task familiar enough that he accomplished it without making a fool of himself. He pulled down the leather, grazing lean hips and thick thighs with his fingertips as he dropped to a crouch Geralt stepped out of his trousers, and Jaskier rose again. With one hand, he untied Geralt's smallclothes and didn't waste any time to close his hand around Geralt's cock, warm and slightly damp. More than half-hard, which should have been gratifying, but for some reason filled Jaskier with equal amounts of terror and excitement.

Geralt hissed through clenched teeth, hardening further under Jaskier's touch.

Jaskier stepped closer so that they were almost touching. "Kiss me."

He wasn't exacly surprised when Geralt growled, "Shut up," before obeying.

They ended up on the bed with Geralt on top of him, grinding against each other. There was no finesse in it, but Jaskier didn't complain, between filthy kisses and moans, he'd lost the ability to form words. He had to fight not to lose himself in Geralt, his scent, his taste, the heat he was radiating. He'd always wanted to touch Geralt's hair and indulged in it for a moment, carding through it, learning the texture, tugging slightly at the root, something that Jaskier liked when it was done to him. Geralt growled, reached for his wrists and forced them onto the mattress.

 _No swooning maiden_ , Jaskier told himself, but it became increasingly difficult to hold on to that resolution. Geralt was on top of him, hot and heavy and breathtaking, and it would be over far too soon if Jaskier let him have his way. He started struggling against Geralt's hold. "Geralt. Stop."

It wasn't even that loud, but Geralt heard him, and stopped, letting go of his hands and raising his head to meet Jaskier's gaze.

"There's no rush," Jaskier said. "Is there?"

He knew, and Geralt knew, that taking their time wasn't what Geralt had in mind. But if there had ever been a challenge that Geralt didn't live up to, Jaskier had yet to hear of it.

"What do you want?" It sounded vaguely affronted.

Jaskier huffed out a laugh. "Let go, and I'll show you."

There was no way to reverse their positions by turning them around, as he might have done with a woman or a man closer to his own body weight and height. The bed was too small for that kind of tussling anyway, so Jaskier had to prod, push, and pull to get Geralt to lie on his back, Jaskier straddling him. He knew the moment their eyes met that this wasn't what Geralt wanted. Geralt had no chance to hide his face this way, couldn't conceal the reaction of his body or exert control to the same extent as before.

Jaskier raised his eyebrow, a silent question. Geralt scowled but didn't protest.

"You said you wanted to pay a debt," Jaskier said casually.

"This isn't –"

 _This isn't what_ _?_ He was afraid too ask. "Have you ever fucked a man?"

"No."

"Have you ever wanted to?"

"Stop asking me stupid questions," Geralt ground out.

"Only one more," Jaskier said. "Have you ever taken it up the arse?"

Silence. He could feel the tension running through Geralt, and for a moment, he wasn't sure whether Geralt would buck him off, scramble from the bed and flee. Had he reached the extent of what Geralt was willing to do?

Geralt's cock was softening a little. So was Jaskier's. He remained motionless, waiting for Geralt's reply.

"No," Geralt finally said.

Jaskier didn't think he'd ever heard him sound that reproachful. "It's quite an experience," he said. "But not something I do very often. Nor the other way round," he added, just to make sure Geralt got the whole picture. "Too much of a bother. I rather like it like this, but if you want me to fuck you –" Geralt's murderous expression might have made him laugh at some other time. Right now, it was a reminder that Geralt didn't actually want to be here. Not in the way that counted. "Thought so." He made himself smile. "What is it that you should like, o' witcher of mine?"

"For you to shut the fuck up." Geralt pulled him into a furious kiss, biting at his lips.

Jaskier ended up in Geralt's lap, grinding down on him. That seemed to suit them both fine. Geralt's nipples were rather sensitive, and he hissed when Jaskier twisted and bit them, his breaths coming considerably faster. He even allowed Jaskier to tilt his head back and take control of their kisses.

When Jaskier brought him to completion for the first time, Geralt closed his eyes, panting, and Jaskier felt him shudder. He stared, not wanting to miss a second of this: the way Geralt's body was covered by a sheen of sweat, the way the tension mounted, crested, then dissipated in waves; the way Geralt's lips softened as he became more pliable, willing to let himself be kissed at a more leisurely pace, just for a moment.

Jaskier took adavantage of that, kept kissing him, cupping his face – palm against' Geralt's cheek, feeling the stubble under his thumb. He couldn't make himself stop.

Geralt's hands slid over his back, his shoulders. The roughened, callused texture of his fingertips made Jaskier shiver. It was a lazy, indulgent sort of touch that made Jaskier melt into it. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to kiss Geralt again and again, not sure he'd ever have his fill, until Geralt huffed and unceremoniously shoved him on his back.

"If you suck my cock, I'll let you fuck my thighs," Jaskier offered, the first thing that came to his mind, and experienced the rare pleasure of getting to see Geralt _blush_.

Geralt didn't suck his cock, but he closed a hand around Jaskier's cock and started bringing him off, movements surprisingly steady and sure as if he'd done this hundreds of times before. Long, devastating strokes, slick with his own come. All Jaskier could do was lie there and take it. He couldn't bear to look at Geralt, so he closed his eyes, gasping for breath thrusting up until he helplessly spilled into Geralt's hand.

When he opened his eyes again, long moments later, still relearning how to breathe, Geralt was lying beside him. He was hard again.

Jaskier didn't know what Geralt saw in his face, didn't want to know. Instead, he turned over without making eye contect, lying down on his stomach. "Come on."

Moments later, Geralt was on top of him, his cock sliding between Jaskier's thighs. Jaskier let him rut between his legs. Geralt's weight was pressing him into the sheets, he was surrounded by Geralt's overwhelming scent and the stench of sex – mingled sweat, musk, and semen. For a moment, Jaskier was tempted to offer Geralt to fuck his arse. Geralt would like it, and maybe it would feel good enough for him to realize –

Jaskier gripped the mattress with both hands, turning his head to hide his face in the pillow, breath hitching.

Geralt stopped moving. "Am I hurting you?" His voice was a hoarse whisper against Jaskier's ear.

Jaskier shuddered, then took a deep, labored breath, forcing down the noise that threatened to come out along with it. "No." He moved under Geralt, bracing himself, tensing his buttocks and squeezing Geralt's cock between his thighs. "Keep going."

Geralt grunted and thrust, almost as if on instinct, and started moving again, his hands gripping Jaskier's shoulders tightly. Moments later, he went rigid, cock pulsing between Jaskier's thighs, coating him with his warm, sticky release. Jaskier's cock had remained soft, but now it stirred again.

Geralt lay on top of him, heavy and relaxed, and Jaskier briefyl indulged in a fantasy where he got to keep this, where Geralt would eventually stretch out beside him and put an arm around him to hold him close. As Geralt's breathing slowly evened out, he noticed how quiet the room was, and how cold.

Then Geralt moved, and his weight disappeared. Cold air wafted over Jaskier's damp, overheated skin.

He felt the mattress dip and didn't say anything.

To his surprise, Geralt didn't immediately leave but returned with a wet cloth to wipe them both over. Jaskier opened his eyes to watch him. Geralt sat down beside him, touching Jaskier's hair, his cheekbone. His hand slid down Jaskier's spine, to the small of his back. With a thumb, he drew a circle on Jaskier's right buttock, then laid his palm on it. Jaskier shivered a little but didn't move.

Geralt's palm was warm, a little sweaty. _Proprietary._

"Stop thinking," Geralt said after a moment. "Go to sleep."

Out of a sense of self-preservation, Jaskier did.

* * * * *

When he woke again, the candle hard burned down. A strange, reddish glow filled the room.

Blinking in confusion, he turned to his side. Geralt sat at the end of the bed, his back to Jaskier, fully dressed.

Slowly, Jaskier sat up. That strange light … "Geralt?"

Geralt turned halfway. He held out his hand, mute. The rose was glowing on his palm, shining from within. Jaskier had never seen it do that before. "How did you find that?"

"I sensed it. The magic."

"Oh." Jaskier swallowed. "Wait. What do you see when you look at it?"

He couldn't see Geralt's face very clearly, but the thought he recognized a frown. "What am I _meant_ to see?"

"I asked you first."

"A magical gem, reeking of fairy magic."

Which meant that the glamour didn't work on Geralt. That wasn't very surprising, all things considered. "It was a gift. I think, the fairy queen … well, liked me? Enough to give me this. Out of pity, maybe. Who knows." He shrugged.

"And it didn't occur to you," Geralt said evenly, "that a fairy qeen's gift might have some magical properties that you might not be aware of?"

"Huh?" But even as he said it, Jaskier understood. "You – you think that …" All of a sudden, words failed him.

Geralt's voice was perfectly level, sharp and a little cold as he said, "I think that what you thought of as a gift is a magical artifact powerful enough to compel a witcher."

Something cold trickled down Jaskier's spine. Geralt couldn't possibly think …

"A rather convenient excuse," Jaskier said, after he'd found his voice, as coolly as Geralt. "Isn't it." He didn't trust himself to say more.

Geralt looked at him. Whatever he saw in Jaskier's face it made him drop the gem like a hot coal, then he abruptly got to his feet and went to pick up his swords.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be true.

But it did, and it was, and Jaskier sat there, uncomprehending, as Geralt left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. He kept sitting there even as he heard noises from the yard, someone hammering at the barn door, the furious barking of a dog and the annoyed voice of a groom complaining to be roused at this ungodly hour, Geralt's terse reply and then, a couple of minutes later, hoofbeats, slowly fading in the distance.

The gem still lay on the bed. It was no longer glowing. Jaskier reached for it with shaking hands.

It wasn't true, couldn't be. Geralt had chosen this, as had Jaskier, and there had been no compulsion … or had there?

He hated that Geralt made him doubt himself. He hated that he couldn't even tell for sure. He didn't even know what would be worse: if Geralt had been compelled, or if he hadn't but still chose to believe it.

He closed his fingers around the gem. Squeezed it so tightly that the fine petals cut his palm. Then he threw it across the room, as hard as he could, and saw and heard it shatter. A flash of red, a mourning cry in the back of his mind. Then, nothing.

Sitting in the dark, Geralt's scent still on his skin, Jaskier knew that he had lost something that night, a part of himself he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to recover.

The worst thing was that he couldn't even mourn its loss.


End file.
